


The Girl on the Doorstep

by Precipice



Series: Nath [1]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom
Genre: (also here be some triggering language pertaining to CSA but no actual CSA occurs), (happy Solstice!), Child Abuse, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21905377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Precipice/pseuds/Precipice
Summary: In which Asenath Waite learns that she belongs to herself.
Series: Nath [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586722
Kudos: 14





	The Girl on the Doorstep

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to elderlyhobbit. <3
> 
> Inspired by my hate for the Bastard and my love for a certain [poem](https://clementinepoetry.us/post/145084715334/this-is-the-house-that-built-me-and-im-gonna).

Her mother’s hands were cold — cold like the other side of the pillow, a soothing kind of cold that lulled Asenath back to sleep after her father’s booming voice had awakened her.

Her father often raised his voice back when her mother was still there. Her mother never seemed to listen, but she must have heard him anyway, because one night she walked out the door and never came back.

Asenath remembered that night well. It was the evening before the winter Solstice, and the house had been decorated for the occasion because they were expecting the Marshes for dinner, and all day long her father had been saying all sorts of things that Asenath, being merely six years old at the time, had not understood very well. Her mother did not deign to respond to a single word, but as soon as the Marshes left, she gathered her belongings and quickly pressed her lips to Asenath’s forehead — for the first and last time — before disappearing into the dark night.

Her father never raised his voice again.

***

She was almost twelve when it started.

Her father, who had been rather content to ignore her, developed a sudden interest in Asenath soon after her tenth birthday — not in what she did or thought or liked, but rather than in what she was.

He did not speak to her more than necessary — he never had, really, since he tended to question the servants first, usually Moses but sometimes Abigail too, and only then would he ask his daughter, as if to cross-check their reports — but he began to stare.

Every week or so, her father would ask her to lift up her chin and tilt her head this way and that way and backwards — the better to see her neck, he would say. He would also ask her to spread her fingers as wide as she could, and afterwards he would ask her to take off her shoes and socks and do the same with her toes.

Whatever it was that he found in her — or did not, rather — it seemed to please him immensely.

***

The first time he called her in his study, Asenath was almost excited.

They were going to do something called an “exercise“, her father explained.

She had never done an “exercise“ before.

It was very important that she did not tell anyone about it, her father insisted — this was something that only the two of them were capable of understanding.

She had never thought of herself and her father as a “two“ of anything — she was Asenath, and he was Ephraim; she was a little girl, and he was a big man; she liked to draw and to read and to sew, and he liked...

She had never been allowed to enter his study, either, so she had no expectations.

A long wall, covered with books. A long table, covered with tools. One desk, two chairs, three wax candles in a brass candelabrum. It was almost noon and the day was as sunny as any day in May could be, but the curtains were closed and the candles — lit.

Her father pointed her to one of the chairs, then took the other one. For a while, they just sat in silence, facing each other — a little girl with large eyes in a white blouse and a blue skirt, an old man with gray hair in a black costume.

Asenath did not dare look around, but she did not dare look at her father either. Not until he asked her to.

***

At first, they did their “exercise“ once a day for about an hour.

Then twice a day.

Then thrice a day.

Then once a day for two hours.

It took less than a week of these daily “exercises“ for Asenath to realize that she did not like looking at her father at all.

It took almost a year for her to realize that she did not like looking at herself either.

***

When Asenath bled for the first time, a priestess of Dagon came to see her.

It was traditional, her father explained as he led the girl to the parlour, and it had nothing to do with their “exercises“, so she did not have to mention them to the priestess — in fact, it would be better if she did not say anything at all, as silence would convey her respect for the holy woman better than any flattery could.

Asenath had seen the priestesses before — they would come out of the water every May-Eve and every Hallowe’en, and most of them stayed after the ceremonies to mingle. She had always admired their magnificent regalia from afar, not daring to approach them lest they noticed her, and now she could not help but look her fill. It was like staring at the sun glitter at dawn. Asenath thought of the summer Solstice, and then of the winter Solstice, and then of her...

The priestess ordered her father out of the room — not with a word, but with a mere wave of her sparkling hand. The heavy bracelets on the holy wrist clanked against each other, and the sound reminded Asenath both of a door being locked and of a window being opened.

Her father bit his lips, but obeyed.

Once they were alone, the priestess seemed to shine brighter — as if her father’s mere presence had cast a shadow over the room. The holy woman touched the sides of her neck, the gaps between her fingers. Her hands were cold and gentle.

“You are too warm,“ the priestess remarked, though her voice was not unkind. “You will not take to the water.“

She gazed at Asenath, as if searching for something more — for someone other than the girl whose face she still held in her palms.

Asenath gazed back.

“Still, you have your mother’s eyes.“

The priestess reached into the folds of her robe.

“For you.“

A chain of gold, each heavy link carrying an amulet of precious stone.

“From her.“

Asenath took the necklace, almost dropped it, surprised by its weight, then quickly hid it in her skirt‘s pocket. She was not allowed to speak, but she could still express herself. She nodded to indicate that she heard, that she understood, that she appreciated this secret, this message, this gift.

The idea of showing the necklace to her father crossed her mind, however briefly, and the wrongness of it made her stomach twist and turn.

***

About a month before her fourteenth birthday, after finally completing their first three-hour-long “exercise“, Asenath asked her father if she could read some of the books in his study.

He considered her request — considered her — and shrugged:

“It’s not like you could do much harm... or anything, really. Read whatever you want."

***

She had always been rather small for her age, and it did not help that she seemed to have stopped growing long before she turned fifteen.

What did help, however, that her father was tall enough to reach the topmost shelves of his library.

***

Asenath read everything.

And the more she read, the more she wanted.

***

It was the night of the winter Solstice — ten years after her mother had left. 

Ten years without her mother — ten years without. Asenath was not sure whether she mourned her mother‘s absence or what had become of her life after her mother’s exit. Asenath was not sure of many things — not even of herself — but she was sure that she wanted to at least try to be something more than... try to be someone other than...

Her father had left the house early that morning — left for Arkham, or so he had told Moses as the servant helped him into his coat. They were to expect him early next morning, since he did not intend to spend more time away than it was necessary, provided that the snowfalls did not render the roads inaccessible. 

His servants had retired to their room hours ago. Asenath had gone to bed even earlier, claiming a headache. 

She placed some clothes in a sack she had sewn out of her old blanket. Her mother’s necklace was a cold weight around her neck — a grain of hope, a spark of courage, a token of love. She dressed as warmly as she could — if her reading of the maps in her father's study was accurate, it would take her at least several hours to follow the old rails and get to the nearby village of Rowley, where she would be able to catch the next train to wherever. It had snowed earlier today, but not much — barely an inch, enough to cover the ground but not the beaten paths. 

Asenath crept downstairs just as the grandfather clock struck midnight. No need of any light — she truly had her mother’s eyes. 

She did not intend to linger more than it was wise or even necessary, but she had to visit her father’s study one last time — not just for the money box, but also for at least some of the books. It took her longer than she had expected to decide which ones to take. Each one of these books had been a revelation and a revolution — their pages had been windows and wings. And now that she was finally ready to fly... 

A painfully familiar hand grabbed her upper arm in a vice-like grip. Her father. If someone else — anyone else — had simply gone ahead and bitten her with all their might and spite, it would have hurt less. Her father. Her father. 

“Why, you...“ 

The candelabrum’s heavy base connected with his temple before he could finish. 

For the life of her, she would not be able to tell which was louder — the crack of his skull or the thud of his body.

*** 

Asenath stood on the doorstep, just for a breath, for a blink, for a beat of her heart, before stepping outside. The night stretched before her, white with snow and bright with stars. 

The year's longest night. 

And once this night was over, the day would begin to grow.


End file.
